


Shipwrecked

by Aini_NuFire



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Peril, Pirates, Sick Aramis, Stranded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-09 22:09:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20517206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: While on a mission delivering trade papers to the island of Guernsey, the musketeers are caught in a storm and shipwrecked. Separated and in dire straits, they must work to find each other and a way off the island. And then the pirates they run into certainly don’t help matters.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will have seven chapters. Which will carry us through most of September, and then I'm going to try my hand at Whumptober this year. Oh my.
> 
> A note on setting—Sark island was a refuge for pirates until 1565 when Queen Elizabeth I made it a fief for Jersey with the condition that it be kept free of pirates by stationing at least forty men armed with muskets there. But for the purposes of this fic, we're altering history a bit and making the island still an uninhabited refuge for pirates.
> 
> Disclaimer: The Musketeers aren't mine. Thanks to 29Pieces for beta reading! And thanks to tessseagull for helping me with the Spanish in later chapters!

Water slapped d'Artagnan in the face, rousing him violently. He coughed and spluttered as another wave washed over him, splashing a sweet, salty tang into his mouth. The receding tide tugged at his leathers and he scrambled upright in sudden fear before he realized he was too far up on the beach to fully be dragged back in. Crawling through the sand, he hauled himself all the way out of the surf and nearly collapsed again under a barrage of coughs. He was freezing but the dry sand was warm beneath him. Wiping sopping hair from his eyes, he sat up straighter and looked around at craggy cliffs rising sharply up to green hilltops. Then he turned back to the empty beach and ocean stretching out as far as the eye could see…

_The sea was a maelstrom, waves rising up like great titans from ancient mythology. They pitched the piddly ship back and forth in their violent tantrum. The crew dashed about in frantic efforts to keep the sails pulled in and the lines secure in the hurricane force gales. Or they simply hung on for dear life as wave after wave arched up and crashed over the side of the bulwark._

_D'Artagnan could barely hear the shouts over the howling winds. Freezing rain pelted his face like shards of ice, and water had long since soaked through his leathers. He grabbed a line a sailor was struggling with and pulled with all his might._

_A horrible cracking sound split the air above. Before d'Artagnan could comprehend why there'd been no lightning, a huge wave slammed into him, sweeping him across the deck. He heard someone scream his name as he went up and over the side._

D'Artagnan staggered to his feet, wincing at a myriad of bruises and strained muscles. He patted himself down and determined he wasn't seriously hurt, though several minor abrasions were stinging fiercely from the salt water that'd gotten into them. But at least the cold had probably helped reduce any swelling he might have developed, though being wet and chilled wasn't exactly tolerable.

He looked around the beach again, at a loss. Where was he? He'd thought they were still too far out from their destination at the island of Guernsey when the storm hit, though maybe the raging winds had driven the ship across the distance that much. Whatever had happened, he was damn lucky to be alive. A miracle from God, Aramis would say. Oh… His brothers probably thought him dead. D'Artagnan could imagine how devastated they would be…in fact he was worried too. He needed to find help, find out what happened to the ship.

The stretch of beach he was on was actually rather small, framed by those sharply angled cliffs. With grim resignation, d'Artagnan realized he was going to have to climb. He took off his wet gloves and tucked them into his belt, his fingers ghosting over where the reassuring hilt of his sword would normally be; his weapons had been left in the berth deck so as not to get in the way when he'd gone up top to try to help the crew. He'd been useless though; they all had been in the face of that squall. D'Artagnan had heard tales of men at sea encountering forces beyond all comprehension. He hadn't understood it until now.

Tilting his head back to survey the three-hundred-foot ridge, d'Artagnan swallowed around a parched throat and moved forward to find a foothold. One step at a time, he told himself.

The first several grips and pulls were doable enough, but once he started to gain some height, his muscles began to ache. He nicked his hands on the coarse rock, adding to his list of hurts. The sun beating down on him at least served to dry his waterlogged clothing, though after a while he felt like the back of his neck was baking. He just couldn't win.

He found a few places with ledges where he could stop and rest, and some that were wide enough he could take a winding path up for several feet. The height gave him a further view of the horizon straight ahead, but he saw no ships. He was in a small bay, though, which obstructed visibility to the right and left of his position. Once he reached the top of the ridge, he'd hopefully be able to spot a port or town where he could find help.

D'Artagnan had no idea how long it was taking him to scale the cliff. He couldn't spare any attention to the position of the sun, as every ounce of concentration had to be focused on not slipping or losing his grip.

He was a dozen feet or so from the top now and had to climb again. Exhaustion made him want to collapse where he was, but he gritted his teeth and pressed forward. One foot at a time.

He swung his arm up to grab a rock and finally haul himself the rest of the way when a hand suddenly grabbed his wrist. D'Artagnan was so startled that he almost lost his balance and fell backward to his death, but the grip on him was firm and heaved him up the rest of the way onto level ground.

D'Artagnan caught himself against a rock and blinked up at his savior, panting. "Athos!"

The swordsman put a hand on his heaving shoulder and squeezed, his eyes unusually open with concern. "Are you all right?"

D'Artagnan nodded breathlessly and smiled in relief. "I have to say, after we get back to France, no more sea journeys for me."

Athos snorted humorlessly. "Agreed."

D'Artagnan straightened. "I'm really glad you found me, and that the ship made it to Guernsey okay."

Athos frowned at him, and d'Artagnan finally noticed that his clothes were damp. There was a tear in the sleeve of his coat that wasn't bandaged, nor was he wearing his weapons belt.

"I have no idea what became of the ship," Athos said. "The mast broke, and that's the last thing I remember before washing up in a sea cave. I just finished climbing my way out through a vertical shaft that brought me up here."

D'Artagnan mentally reeled. He didn't know much about sailing a ship, but he knew the mast was important. And if others had been thrown overboard in the chaos…there could be injured or dead washing up all along the shore. He glanced back down at the empty beach he'd woken up on.

"I also don't believe this is Guernsey," Athos went on and nodded to his right where the ridge d'Artagnan had just climbed leveled out for a few short feet before plunging down the other side again, forming a narrow isthmus that connected to another portion of the island. "I don't recall that geographical formation on the map I saw in the captain's cabin."

D'Artagnan's heart dropped into his stomach and he swept his gaze over the area he could see, which consisted of mostly flatland covered in shrubbery. So they'd likely been shipwrecked, and on an unknown island that didn't appear to have any civilization.

Yet, he reminded himself.

Athos clapped his shoulder. "Come, we need to try to find the ship."

D'Artagnan gave himself a small shake and nodded. They could already see there wasn't much to the second, smaller part of the island, so they headed off the other direction. They made their way up to a slightly higher ridge and gazed out at the coastline. D'Artagnan's breath stole from him again when he spotted their ship, the _Aigrette_, up at the north end of the island. It had crashed upon some rocks and lay tilted toward one side, the main mast a splintered stump in the middle.

But there was another ship anchored near the wreckage, and d'Artagnan felt a thrill of hope that a rescue was already lending aid and fishing out survivors. Until he took a second look.

The ship was flying a black flag.

o.0.o

Aramis was flung to the ground, unable to keep his balance with his hands bound in front of him. He immediately pitched sideways as yet more sea water surged up from his lungs. It burned his throat coming out and left him exhausted and breathless when it finally abated. He sagged against the rocks at his back, panting, and listened to the distorted sounds coming and going around him.

"Are you all right?" someone asked quietly.

He prized his eyes open and turned toward them. It was Luca, the cabin boy. He and a handful of other crew members from the _Aigrette_ were huddled together in the back of the cave, hands tied with rope like Aramis's.

He forced himself to sit up straighter. "Is anyone hurt?"

Another sailor, Herbert, shook his head. "Those who aren't seriously wounded are being rounded up. Those who are…they're shot on the spot."

Aramis frowned and turned his attention to their captors. They were all a rough-looking sort, with sun-weathered or pockmarked skin and grizzly beards. At the moment they were busy moving in and out of the large cave, which Aramis realized had tents, stacks of barrels and crates, and cooking fires, none of which looked as though it had been erected on the spot. It was a den.

"Who are they?" Aramis asked, keeping his voice low so as not to draw attention.

"Pirates," someone murmured.

Wonderful. A bunch of scavengers eager to pick clean whatever was left of the _Aigrette_, her misfortune their gain.

Snippets of Spanish wafted across the cavern.

"Spanish pirates," Aramis amended.

"What do they want with us?" Luca asked fearfully. He was only a couple of years younger than d'Artagnan, and the reminder pulled at Aramis's heart. He'd watched the young Gascon get swept overboard, had rushed to the bulwark and peered over into the churning black sea, the boy already gone.

Aramis swallowed against the spiky lump in his throat and roved his gaze around the cavern. He spotted two men in conversation and the one in the hat seemed like he might have held some authority. Angling his ear their direction, Aramis strained to make out what they were saying.

His stomach lurched. "They believe they can sell us as galley slaves," he relayed to the others.

"You speak Spanish?" Herbert asked, narrowing a suspicious look at him.

"And Latin," he rejoined sharply. Honestly, even if he _was_ Spanish, as some men were inclined to judge, it wouldn't earn him any quarter with their captors. Pirates were a breed of their own and held no loyalty to kin or country.

Aramis turned his attention to evaluating their situation. The cave entrance was across the den and too well trafficked for them to slip out that way. And he hadn't gotten a good enough look at the area when he'd been dragged out of the surf to judge what challenges they'd face even if they did manage to break away.

"Do you know where we landed?" he asked.

"Sark," one of the sailors replied. "It's a small island just east of Guernsey."

"Can help be found here?"

The man shook his head. "It's been uninhabited for a while, save for pirates who use it as a refuge."

Aramis sighed. That wasn't good.

Another cough punched its way up from his chest with enough force he thought he was going to hack up part of his lung. He spat a glob of foamy mucus on the ground and then slumped back against the rock wall, shivering as his soaked leathers clung to him uncomfortably. Aramis hated the cold with a bitter passion. The sticky coating of brine on his skin was nothing like the snow in the woods of Savoy, but he was miserable nonetheless. And his heart ached with the same gut-wrenching grief as it had that fateful day years ago.

After d'Artagnan had gone overboard, the mast had come crashing down and Aramis had been thrown from the ship as well. The plunge into the icy water had stolen his breath and the current had dragged him under almost instantly. He'd thought he was going to die, had been swallowed by the darkness until he woke up on a beach to ruffians hauling him up and binding his hands.

He had no idea what had become of Athos and Porthos. Had they even made it to the island? They weren't in the cave, so did that mean their bodies lay broken upon the shore or lost at sea with d'Artagnan? Or had they washed up with the others but been injured? Had a pirate's musket ball been their end?

Aramis's throat started to close up and he pressed his hands against his chest out of habit. He was surprised when he felt the contours of his crucifix miraculously still there beneath his shirt. Clutching at them fervently, he closed his eyes and prayed for his brothers' souls, prayed that they did not suffer. He supposed their fate was probably more merciful than the one that lay in store for those who'd survived.

But then a small part of him that had been witness to his brothers' tenacities and resilience, that trusted them to always come for him, prayed that they were out there, somewhere, and that he would see them again.

o.0.o

Porthos paced the length of the cave he was in like a wounded bear. The tide lapped at the ground around his feet, creeping higher and higher while the waves just outside the cave opening crashed forcefully against the rocks. Even if he could swim, Porthos didn't think he'd be able to fight against them. Which left him trapped in a hole with no way out and no idea just how high the tide would go.

The cavern extended up for maybe twenty feet, multi-colored quartz glittering in the light that reflected off the surface of the water. It would have been pretty were it not potentially going to be his tomb. How long did high tide last? Was the water going to fill the entire cave and drown him or simply make him more cold and wet than he already was? And once it retreated, would it be far enough for him to try to swim his way out? The span of the cave opening had already been completely filled by the time he'd come to his senses up on the dry rocks. Porthos couldn't believe it; he'd miraculously survived drowning at sea, only to be faced with it again.

"Hey!" he hollered. "Is anyone out there? Hey!"

His voice was swallowed up by the roar of the waves. Porthos growled and paced some more. He needed to get _out_ of here, needed to be out there looking for the others. The ship had wrecked, he knew that much. But how he'd ended up stranded in a bloody cave was beyond him. He could just imagine Aramis making jokes about it, d'Artagnan too. Athos would look simultaneously bored and impatient about sending a rowboat in to get him. Because a rowboat could surely handle the tide, right? It'd be fine. Maybe they were looking for him right now.

"Hello!" he yelled again.

No one answered.

And the water rose ever higher.


	2. Chapter 2

Athos and d'Artagnan crouched at the edge of the escarpment and watched a couple of rowboats move between the _Aigrette_ and the pirate ship as they looted the wreckage. Not that it mattered much; with it no longer seaworthy, the _Aigrette_ wouldn't be providing them a way off the island.

"Over there," d'Artagnan said, pointing back toward a beach parallel to the ships where men were piling up bodies. Others, however, looked like they were being taken prisoner. "What do we do?"

"We are outnumbered and have no weapons," Athos replied grimly.

"Then we look for more survivors who washed up further down the island like we did."

Athos didn't respond to that. D'Artagnan was young and too optimistic in ways that experience would eventually temper. Whereas Athos knew, though he didn't want to say aloud, that there were few actual beaches here; most of the island was made up of sharp cliffs that would kill any man unfortunate enough to be dashed against them. The cave he'd woken up in had had no land access; Athos had only escaped by finding a vertical shaft that'd risen up and out and had enough ledges to support a climb.

Still, they needed to get a closer look if they were going to make any plans, and there was always the possibility of coming across some survivors.

Athos tapped d'Artagnan's shoulder to signal they should get moving. They stayed away from the edge of the cliffs lest they be spotted and trekked over mostly flat fields and rocky dirt patches. The sun beat down on them with glaring intensity, helping to dry Athos's clothes.

It was less than a mile to the other end of the island and they stayed low as they crept again to the edge of the ridge to look down at where the pirate ship was anchored. Men were still busy on the _Aigrette_, but others were on shore and moving in and out of sight directly below their perch from what Athos assumed was a cave. He wasn't able to spot anyone from the _Aigrette_.

"Looks like the nearest way down is halfway back the way we came," d'Artagnan commented, scanning the coastline.

Athos looked behind him. He couldn't see from here but it was possible there were other descending paths along the northern or western ends.

"There's no way to sneak up on them," d'Artagnan went on, frustration tinging his voice. "Not with lookouts on the ship."

"Not to mention we have yet to fix the problem of being unarmed," Athos pointed out.

The boy huffed. "We can't just wait around either for another ship to happen out this way. Aramis and Porthos could be down there."

Athos's throat tightened. Or they weren't. Athos couldn't see the pile of carcasses well enough to identify any individuals in the pile, and the thought that he would eventually have to face that task filled his stomach with churning dread.

He drew back from the ledge and straightened, turning to survey the terrain. "The island isn't big. We can look around the rest of it and see if by some miracle we come across something of use. Not to mention we need to find some freshwater if possible, as we've had none since last night and the sea has a way of parching a man."

D'Artagnan's jaw ticked in discontent but he didn't argue. They weren't equipped to do anything else at this point.

They followed the northern end cliffs around to the other side of the island. Athos scanned the vast expanse of ocean for ships but didn't see any. If the island was uninhabited, then anyone who weren't pirates had no business sailing this way. They might cross the channel a ways out, in which case, how might the stranded musketeers attract attention? A large enough fire could potentially send up a smoke signal that passing merchants might spot on their way to Guernsey. But that wasn't an option as long as the pirates remained anchored here. And if they were taking prisoners from the _Aigrette_, then Athos and d'Artagnan couldn't let the ship leave with them.

They reached a small knoll that seemed to be the highest point of the island and found an old stone windmill. Apparently the island had been inhabited at some point in the past. There was also a well nearby with an intact rope and bucket at the bottom, so they stopped to draw some water.

The old bucket was leaking waterfalls out of multiple holes as they hauled it up, but there was still enough in the bottom for them to scoop up several mouthfuls. Athos splashed some on the back of his neck. He'd been soaked and cold before and now he was overly warm from hiking all over the island. His hat would have been of use just then. But then so would his sword and pistol.

"Do you think Porthos and Aramis are alive?" d'Artagnan asked. For all of his brash optimism, sometimes he still possessed the youthful need for reassurance.

A reassurance Athos could not give. He had been avoiding that train of thought because his rational mind would be pragmatic while his heart would rail against it. He did not want to face the harsh reality that there was a good chance his brothers had perished. Finding d'Artagnan had been a miracle as it was. Athos did not believe in a God who would grant him more than one.

D'Artagnan looked down, expression pinching at the lack of answer.

But Athos had no words of encouragement to offer him. And so they wordlessly continued on.

o.0.o

Aramis took a measured sip from the waterskin the prisoners had been given. It barely quenched his thirst but he forced himself not to gulp down more. They all had to share and couldn't know how generous their captors would be should they run out too soon. He passed it back and shifted on the hard ground to alleviate the ache in his back. A cough tickled the back of his throat, igniting a desperate need for more water. He did his best to swallow it.

Idly, he roved his gaze around the cave and spotted two men coming in, dragging another crew member from the _Aigrette_ between them. Aramis recognized Clerc, Luca's older brother. The sailor was slouched between the men as though he could barely keep his feet and there was a red stain seeping through his shirt at his shoulder.

"_Capitán!_" one of the pirates called, drawing their captain's attention. "_¿Qué te parece?_"

The captain narrowed his eyes as he studied Clerc, then shook his head. "_Él no vale la pena. Dispárale._"

"_No!_" Aramis yelled, surging up onto his knees. "_Por favor, soy médico, puedo tratarlo_."

Every Spanish pirate in the cavern turned to stare at him incredulously.

The captain strode over, and Aramis struggled to his feet to meet him face to face. The man's expression was hard and calculating as he considered Aramis for a long, tense moment. Then he cocked his head curiously and jabbed a finger into the pauldron on his shoulder. "_You are not a sailor, and that is not a doctor's uniform._"

"_I'm a soldier_," Aramis replied. "_Trained in field medicine. Please, you don't have to kill him. The wound is not life threatening._"

The captain regarded him for another moment before gesturing for his men to bring Clerc over. The brutes dropped the injured man unceremoniously on the ground at Aramis's feet.

Aramis had to duck his gaze so they wouldn't see his glare as he dropped down beside Clerc and tugged the collar of the man's shirt down to get a look at the injury. It was a ragged puncture, like he'd been skewered by something, but it wasn't too mangled Aramis couldn't stitch it up.

He raised his head toward the Spanish pirate. "_I need warm water, brandy, needle and thread, and bandages, if you please._"

The captain cocked his head at his men without hesitation this time and one of them hurried off. When he returned with the requested items, Aramis lifted his bound hands in silent supplication. The captain drew a dagger from his belt and reached down to cut him free.

"_If you try anything, I will shoot the wounded man in the stomach, and then you,_" he warned.

Aramis gritted his teeth at the unnecessarily cruel threat—stomach wounds were a drawn-out and excruciating way to die. He turned his attention to Clerc who was gazing up at him fearfully.

"What did he say?" he asked, voice quavering from the effort of holding his fear in.

"I asked him to let me treat your wound instead of them shooting you," Aramis answered.

Clerc's eyes blew wider.

"You may not thank me when I tell you they plan to sell us as slaves," he added soberly.

Clerc's chest hitched, but he clenched his jaw. "I'd rather not die," he stammered.

Luca inched toward them cautiously. "Can you really help him?"

"Yes."

Aramis ripped Clerc's shirt a few inches to get more unimpeded access to the area. He picked up a piece of linen and tore a small section off. Then he soaked it in the bowl of water and began to wipe the blood and grit away from the wound. Clerc sucked in a sharp breath and flinched.

"Try to stay still," Aramis advised. "This isn't even the worst of it yet. I have to clean the wound out with alcohol before sewing it closed."

Clerc nodded shakily and visibly tried to control himself.

Luca watched worriedly as Aramis uncorked the bottle of brandy and poured some over the wound. Clerc threw his head back against the ground and choked on a scream. Aramis gripped his upper arm to hold it still.

"Easy, easy." He waited for the man to get his breathing under control so he could brace for the next part. "Have you ever been sewn up before?" Aramis asked conversationally as he threaded the needle.

Clerc grunted. "No."

"Ah. Well, there's a first time for everything. I was seventeen when I took my first musket ball to the shoulder. After the field medic dug it out, he took the needle and thread to it. He was a hack job, uneven stitches that left a dreadful scar. I assure you my needlework is much finer, fit for the Queen's chemise, I've been told. You'll have a neat, barely noticeable mark after it heals. Though scars can be useful. Women love hearing tales of heroic deeds."

Aramis looked up to find several pairs of eyes staring at him.

"H-how's this h-heroic?" Clerc stuttered.

"Surviving impossible odds. Fortitude in the face of great trial. Now, I'm going to stitch this. Breathe through it."

Aramis bent over the wound and inserted the needle into the torn flesh. He felt Clerc stiffen underneath him, but the sailor did his best to keep breathing throughout the procedure. It took a dozen stitches, and several times Aramis had to pause when a cough threatened to jolt his steady hands. But he kept himself under control and finally knotted the thread and snipped it. He rocked back on his haunches and wiped the back of his arm across his sweaty brow.

"Alright?" Aramis asked, setting a gentle hand on Clerc's shoulder.

The sailor nodded. "I'll live."

"Good man." He drew in a shaky breath and reached for the bandages. Luca helped prop his brother up so Aramis could wrap his shoulder. He would have preferred to give Clerc something for the pain and some herbs to help fight off infection but didn't want to press his luck. Not to mention he didn't imagine these pirates kept such medicinal valuables in their troves of treasure.

The pirate captain, who'd stood over him throughout the entire thing, looked at Aramis again with a hint of regard. If he understood any French, he gave no indication. "_Un médico que habla español. Tal vez te mantengamos aquí para nuestra nave._"

He nodded to his men, who came forward and bound Aramis's wrists with rope again. Then they all walked away, leaving the captives to themselves once more.

"What did he say?" Herbert asked.

Aramis scooted back to his place against the wall. "He thinks a medic who speaks their language will be of better use as a slave on their own ship." Aramis lolled his head back and sighed wearily.

It was not an appealing prospect.

o.0.o

Porthos's numb fingers slipped from the cleft in the rock wall and he was forced to half tread water with one arm as he scrambled to find purchase again. His head slipped beneath the surface for just a moment, filling his mouth with the saccharine salty tang. He clawed his way back up, sputtering and spitting as he clung desperately to the slick rocks. His teeth chattered with clacking intensity and his entire body was vibrating with shivers. Before long, he was going to lose the ability to hold on and finally sink down to a watery grave.

The cave was mostly dark now, only a sliver of the very top of the opening not yet submerged, but the tide was quickly filling it the rest of the way. In a matter of minutes, the last of the light would be swallowed up like everything else. And if the water continued to rise, so would he.

Porthos had never been more terrified in his life. He'd faced death before numerous times, but never anything like this. This slow, torturous pressing in upon him, suffocating him, was worse than anything he could imagine in his darkest dreams. His body would never be found, left to rot in this dark, dank cave for crabs and crustaceans to pick clean to the bone. He would be declared lost at sea, and his brothers would have nothing to bring home to bury.

If they hadn't been lost themselves.

Pure, unbridled rage bubbled up at the thought.

"Curse you!" he bellowed at everything and nothing. At the sea for its callous appetite. At nameless men who had failed to hear his previous calls. At God for allowing this to be his fate.

Porthos threw his head back and shouted his rage and despair, his voice trapped and echoing in on itself against the cold rock walls that would be his tomb.


	3. Chapter 3

D'Artagnan looked out at the shrubby foliage that covered most of the island and cursed the sparsity of trees. There wasn't enough wood to build themselves a boat to get off the island, assuming they'd have the luxury to even attempt it after they dealt with the pirates. That was their first priority. At least, it was d'Artagnan's. He understood Athos's reasoning for surveying the rest of the island and not launching an assault when they had no weapons and it was two against an entire ship's crew. But they'd increase their numbers if they just rescued their captured comrades.

D'Artagnan didn't know why pirates would bother taking prisoners. From the stories he'd heard, that wasn't standard, and he doubted these doing so here was out of the kindness of their hearts.

His thoughts turned to Porthos and Aramis, wondering if they'd been taken captive. The more he and Athos traversed the length of the island without coming upon them, the more worry gnawed at d'Artagnan's gut. He couldn't bear to think that they had perished in the storm or subsequent wreckage. Not after everything the four of them had been through together.

"This island has numerous caves," Athos commented, drawing d'Artagnan from his despondent thoughts.

They were on the western side now and had descended to a large stretch of beach where three separate caves delved into the core of the island. D'Artagnan furrowed his brow as he caught sight of something just inside the nearest cave that looked like tarpaulin.

"Over there," he said.

They approached the cave cautiously, but d'Artagnan didn't see any sign of movement within. However, they did find a large cache of supplies from barrels to crates and canvas and rope.

"Perhaps more than one pirate ship uses this island as a base," Athos theorized.

D'Artagnan flipped up a tarp covering, revealing an open crate filled with a variety of blades. "That takes care of weapons," he said with a grin and picked up a sword, testing its weight and balance. It wasn't his rapier but it would do in a pinch. He chose two daggers as well, including one that was small enough to tuck into his boot.

While Athos came over and picked out some for himself, d'Artagnan turned to examine what else was among the stores. He found a crate with some muskets and powder shots thrown haphazardly among them. Next to that was a barrel containing small bombs.

D'Artagnan lifted one out to show Athos. "This should help us even the playing field."

Athos arched a brow noncommittally. Now armed himself, the swordsman started opening up barrels too.

"Found some salted pork," he reported a few moments later.

D'Artagnan looked up from a crate of cooking ware and Athos tossed some of the jerky at him. He tore into it ravenously, not realizing how starving he actually was. The meat was tough and difficult to chew, which made swallowing a strenuous effort. Even Athos made a face at it.

"I think I saw some brandy," d'Artagnan choked out, coughing at the harsh dryness the cured meat left behind in his mouth. He rifled through one of the crates and pulled out a bottle so coated in dust that one could barely see the amber liquid sloshing within. D'Artagnan popped the cork and knocked back a swig. He immediately gagged. "Oh, that's rancid."

Athos held his hand out for it and took a drink. His face scrunched up, but he took another swill anyway. When he offered it back, d'Artagnan waved it off.

"I don't think a pirate's life is for me," he said with a grimace and swept his gaze around the cache. "Where're the mounds of gold?"

Athos shrugged and drank from the bottle again. "Perhaps they're out buying better brandy." He leaned back against a stack of crates and surveyed the supplies. "The munitions do indeed help, but we are still just two and can't possibly lay siege to a cave that is likely just as well stocked."

D'Artagnan crossed his arms. "We have to try. What's our other options? Spend the rest of our lives here? I don't think we'll last long."

"Unfortunately, that pirate ship is our best shot at getting off the island."

"I doubt they'd be accommodating if we ask nicely."

Athos canted his head in agreement.

"So we have to rescue the imprisoned crew first, then commandeer a pirate ship," d'Artagnan summarized. He shook his head. He may have been gung-ho about what needed to be done, but that didn't mean he knew _how_ they were going to go about accomplishing it. Which of course had been Athos's point from the start.

Silence fell between them as no answers were forthcoming. D'Artagnan wracked his brain for ideas. They had the bombs—but they couldn't throw them into the cave and risk injuring the captives. Muskets would only get them so far—farther if Aramis was with them.

D'Artagnan rubbed his face vigorously in frustration. He hadn't felt this helpless since his father had died in his arms. It made him want to punch something.

He was about to start pacing in agitation when something pricked at his hearing. He stilled and listened. It was faint, like a subtle vibration.

"You hear that?" he whispered.

Athos cocked a look at him but didn't say anything as he appeared to listen as well. D'Artagnan moved toward the back of the cave, brows knitting together as the sounds came a little louder. It was like an echo of a raging bellow. D'Artagnan had never really put much stock in sea creatures, but now he was beginning to question if there wasn't some monster lurking somewhere under the island… As if they didn't have enough problems to deal with.

Athos's brows rose sharply. "That sounds like…"

He didn't have to finish for d'Artagnan to jump to the same conclusion. They rushed to the back of the cave and ran their hands over the rock, but it was solid. Then d'Artagnan spotted a crevice up in the corner that looked like it burrowed deeper in. He jumped up to grab hold of the edge and climb up. It was a tunnel, too squat to stand in but definitely wide enough to crawl through. But as soon as d'Artagnan had poked his head in, the noises had stopped. He wondered for a second if he'd imagined it, but no, Athos had heard it too.

D'Artagnan crawled down the passage for several yards before he came out on a ledge overlooking an underground pool. And down in the water about a dozen feet, clinging to the rock wall, was a familiar head of dark curls. "Porthos!"

Porthos twisted sharply to look up at him, expression slack with stunned disbelief. D'Artagnan's stomach tightened at the unnatural gray tinge to the normally bronze skin. He briefly took in the cave and was confounded as to how Porthos had even gotten in there.

"'M see-seein' things," the larger man stuttered. "Or 'm dead al-already."

"No on both accounts," d'Artagnan assured him, then yelled back over his shoulder, "It's Porthos! I need a rope!"

Porthos was visibly shaking, but some of the daze in his eyes cleared as he seemed to realize d'Artagnan was real. "Where the hell d' you come f-from?"

"There's a tunnel up here that reaches back to another cave on the other side of the island. How did you get in here?"

"Was l-low tide when I wa-washed in. Got too high before I c-could get out."

New urgency filled d'Artagnan has he realized how long Porthos had been trapped in the cold water. "Hang on, we'll get you out."

Porthos nodded shakily. "N-no rush."

D'Artagnan turned at the sound of scuffing as Athos crawled toward him with a bundle of rope slung over his shoulder. They looped one end around an arm each as an anchor and then threw the other end over the ledge.

"Can you hold on?" d'Artagnan asked worriedly. He felt a tug on the rope as Porthos grasped it.

"I g-got it."

D'Artagnan planted his boots against the cave wall and began to pull with all his might. He and Athos strained to haul Porthos up, the extra weight from his waterlogged clothes adding to the burden. But finally a head of sopping hair crested the ledge and Athos surged forward to grab the back of Porthos's coat and heave him up and over the rest of the way. D'Artagnan collapsed back with the release of tension but quickly rolled over to grip Porthos's quivering arm as he sat on his hands and knees.

"'M really g-glad to see ya," he stammered.

D'Artagnan grinned weakly but knew Porthos wasn't out of danger yet. They needed to get him dry and warm fast.

The tunnel wasn't wide enough for three people abreast to crawl through so d'Artagnan went first and Athos took up the rear, prodding Porthos forward when he slowed. D'Artagnan scooted out into the other cave and quickly ransacked the supplies for blankets. The ones he found were ratty and coarse but better than nothing.

Porthos practically tumbled out of the shaft and d'Artagnan barely caught him in time to prevent a headlong crash on the ground. Athos slid out after him and they guided Porthos to the mouth of the cave and sat him in a patch of sun. Then they frantically worked to remove his wet coat, shirt, boots, and breeches. At first he tried to help with the clasps, but his fingers and limbs were shaky and uncoordinated and Athos snipped at him to sit still.

They tossed the garments on the ground with a wet slap and wrapped him in the blankets. At least the rock he was sitting on had absorbed plenty of heat from the sun and was radiating it back up. Athos went back into the cave and returned a moment later with the bottle of brandy, which he pushed into Porthos's hand and held there as he helped him lift it to his lips to drink.

Porthos coughed and pulled away. "Wha' is that?"

"Brandy."

"That ain't brandy."

D'Artagnan smirked.

Porthos lifted his head and looked around, brow furrowing. "Aramis?"

"Not yet," Athos replied softly.

D'Artagnan watched fear flash across Porthos's face. "We'll find him," he said staunchly. "The ship wrecked on the north end of the island and unfortunately it's currently being looted by a pirate ship. But we also saw them taking prisoners, so there are more survivors."

And the fact that they'd just found Porthos fueled d'Artagnan's hope and expectation that they would also find their missing fourth. These men were just too stubborn to die.

"Pirates?" Porthos repeated. He glanced over his shoulder at the interior of the cave.

"We believe this to be one of their dens," Athos explained. "The island has a great many caves."

Porthos grumbled under his breath and tucked the blankets tighter about himself. But his shivering seemed to be lessening and the intense rays of the sun on the rocks was better than any fire.

D'Artagnan straightened as an idea struck. "Maybe some of the other caves are connected like this one. If we can find a back way into the other pirate den, we can sneak up on them and rescue everyone."

Athos pursed his mouth thoughtfully. "It's worth trying." He looked at Porthos. "We can wait until you've sufficiently recovered or you can stay here until we return."

"Like hell I'm stayin' behind." He started to stand but Athos pushed him back down.

"Then we'll wait until you're ready. I'll see if I can find some spare clothes." He turned and went back into the cave.

D'Artagnan gathered up Porthos's wet things and draped them across some rocks under the sun to help them dry quicker, shooting surreptitious glances at his friend as he huddled in on himself.

"I thought I was gonna die in there," Porthos said in a subdued voice. "Thought no one was ever gonna find me."

D'Artagnan walked over and squeezed his shoulder. "I had that moment too, when I went overboard. But we're here and we're alive. And we'll find Aramis and he'll be okay too."

Porthos tilted his head up to look at him and gave a sharp nod of solidarity.

Athos came back out carrying some raggedy clothes that had seen more patch days than any garment should be sentenced to. "These might fit you," he said, holding them out to Porthos, who wrinkled his nose at them. "Or you could run around in your smallclothes," Athos suggested diplomatically.

Porthos huffed and snatched the articles out of his hand. Grumbling incoherent mutterings under his breath, he shrugged into the clothes. He was still pale, but hiking up and down the beach would help him warm up the rest of the way, d'Artagnan knew.

There weren't any extra boots so d'Artagnan picked up Porthos's and shook out some of the water. It'd be unpleasant in the beginning but better once they dried.

Porthos retrieved his bandana and wrung out the excess water before placing it on his head, despite the fact it was still wet.

D'Artagnan's lips twitched. "You kinda look like a pirate."

Porthos glanced down at himself.

"Indeed," Athos agreed and held out a sword, dagger, and pistol for him to add to the mix. He put a hand on his shoulder. "You good?"

Porthos gave a firm nod.

"Then let's go."

o.0.o

Aramis coughed into his fists, trying to muffle the sound as best he could. It was getting more persistent. And deeper. There was an ache in his chest and he had yet to banish the chill from the ocean even though it had been hours since he'd been pulled from its clutches.

A pained sound came from his left.

"Aramis," Luca called worriedly.

Aramis forced himself to turn over and scooted toward where Luca sat beside his brother. Clerc lay on the ground, face pinched in distress as he breathed harshly through his nose. Aramis peeled one end of the bandages up to get a look at the wound. It had weeped a bit but didn't look too bad. He gingerly ghosted his fingers around the inflamed flesh to feel for the heat of infection, but unfortunately his own hands were too cold to be able to discern whether the warmth was real or his own skewed perception.

"Luca, feel here. Is the skin extra hot to the touch?"

The cabin boy reached out and nervously touched his brother's shoulder. "I don't think it's too bad…" he said uncertainly.

Aramis held back a sigh. Even if it had been, there was nothing he would have been able to do; drawing attention to it would just condemn Clerc to execution. Though, that might be more merciful if his wound did in fact become infected down the road.

"I'm fine," the sailor grunted. "It jus' hurts some."

Aramis rested his hands on the man's forearm and gave a light squeeze. "Normally I would mix up some herbs for the pain, but I doubt these men would happily share their stores. Not that I imagine they have any."

He quickly turned his head away as a cough erupted from his chest. Each punch felt like a battering ram against his ribs and he pitched his hands to the side to brace himself under the assault.

"You don't look well," Luca said once it stopped.

"I'm fine," Aramis said automatically, but there was a crackle in his voice. He eased himself back against the rocks.

A shadow fell over him and he turned his head up to find the pirate captain standing over him. Aramis tried not to fidget under the man's piercing gaze. Any sign of weakness would seal his fate.

The captain scoffed. "_¿Médico, no puedes curarte a ti mismo? Qué pena._"

Aramis said nothing in the face of the mocking jab that the physician couldn't heal himself, as it had been rhetorical anyway.

The Spanish pirate walked away.

"What'd he say?" Herbert hissed. The man's paranoia about anything spoken in the other language, especially if it was directed to Aramis, had been increasing. Aramis supposed he couldn't blame him.

"I believe my value has just gone down," he said tiredly. If things progressed, as he feared they would, it looked like he might escape the sentence of slavery for something more permanent.

But a few minutes later, one of the pirate crew brought them more water and some hard, stale bread. Whether the captain wanted to salvage his own personal medic or simply ensure he had healthy commodities to sell with the others, Aramis didn't know. He didn't think it really mattered.

After taking a few nibbles and a couple of sips, he leaned back and tried to doze and save his strength.


	4. Chapter 4

The sun was sinking lower to the horizon. The musketeers had explored two caves on the western side of the island so far but found only dead ends. Athos didn't know how many caverns dotted the coastline, and there was always the possibility that none of them even led into the one the pirates were holed up in. But since they had no other courses of action at the moment, they might as well exhaust this one.

They hadn't come across any survivors roaming the island either, at least not on this side. Athos thought it wasn't likely at this point.

The three of them entered another cave, their boots sloshing through standing water left behind by the last tide.

"If I never see another sea cave in my life, it'll be too soon," Porthos grumbled.

"High tide only occurs twice a day," Athos said. "Every twelve hours. We have plenty of time before we have to worry."

Although, he did not relish the thought of trudging through caves for that long. And once night fell, they would have to decide whether to suspend their search until morning or press on. They didn't know how long the pirate ship would remain berthed at the island, or what kind of treatment those who'd been taken captive were enduring. D'Artagnan's idea of searching the caves for a connecting passage had merit, but there was also the chance that they were wasting precious time on something that would never pan out.

It was moments like these Athos loathed the burden of command. As Treville's lieutenant, he was no stranger to leadership. His cool demeanor and strategic mind made him an apt choice as the captain's second-in-command. But decisions of strategy and logic were easy when the obstacles and actions needed to overcome them were clear. Here there was too much unknown, too much at stake.

The cavern stretched into darkness and Athos raised the lit oil lantern he'd found among the pirate cache to illuminate the passage. Amber light glanced off glittering quartz in the rock, sparkling like ensconced treasure.

This tunnel went deeper than the others had. Athos held up a hand for Porthos and d'Artagnan to stop when he spotted faint light up ahead. Setting the lantern down behind an out-jutting of rock to keep it hidden, he crept forward cautiously. The shaft did indeed connect with a larger chamber. Athos saw some crates stacked in the back and he crouched down at the edge of the junction to peer around it. The cave was large and filled with a variety of supplies like the other one was, except this one also had those piles of gold d'Artagnan had been expecting. Open chests spilled over with everything from coins to jewelry to solid gold candle snuffers. Up near the mouth of the cave, a handful of men were sitting around a small cooking fire; the rest of the crew must have been outside or possibly on their ship.

Athos swept his gaze right and spotted the captives from the _Aigrette_ huddled against the wall, and his heart nearly burst with elation at the sight of Aramis among them. Their fourth was alive.

Porthos huffed heavily beside him in relief, having seen the marksman as well.

Athos turned his attention to the situation at hand. "Four men on guard," he whispered. "This is probably the best opportunity we'll have to rescue the others."

"Four against three is easy," Porthos said, a murderous glint in his eye.

"Stealth is the better approach," Athos countered. "We don't know how close the rest of the pirate crew is."

D'Artagnan stood on his tiptoes and carefully leaned out. "I can see rope around the prisoners' hands," he said quietly. "But I can't tell if their feet are bound too."

"So we might need time to cut them loose first," Porthos put in.

Athos cocked his head at him, lips twitching a fraction. "You _do_ look like a pirate," he said with wry inflection. "If you want to try getting close."

Porthos's face cracked into an eager grin. "No problem."

He slipped around the edge of the tunnel, slinking along the wall and between the mounds of supplies to stay out of sight as he approached the captives.

Athos pulled his pistol to have at the ready, and d'Artagnan did the same. And they waited.

o.0.o

Aramis dozed fitfully, unable to truly rest when nightmares of d'Artagnan being swept overboard and drowned assaulted him the moment he drifted deep enough. He'd jerk awake with a start, heart pounding and chest too tight. Hot moisture would prick at his eyes before he got himself under control and swallowed it down.

None of the other prisoners commented on it. They'd all lost friends and comrades in that storm.

Aramis closed his eyes again, too tired to keep them open. Sleep was a torment though, so he focused instead on silent prayers, alternating between ones learned by rote and passages of Scripture, and more direct pleas for the men here with him and the tribulations that lay in store for them.

"Prioritizin' yer beauty sleep over plannin' an escape?" a voice hissed from the left.

Aramis's eyes flew open and he snapped his head to the side. But his ears hadn't deceived him, for there was Porthos a few feet away, looking like he was pretending to dig around in a crate against the wall. Aramis blinked in astonishment at his unusual appearance, though the bandana over his curls was his own.

"You're alive," he breathed. He'd feared…when the pirates failed to bring in more prisoners, Aramis had thought he was alone. Not entirely as he had been at Savoy, but the belief that he'd lost all of his brothers had gouged a bleeding trough through his heart and left him bereft.

Porthos's expression softened in understanding before he grinned. "So are you."

"How did you get in here?"

Porthos glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was looking their way before ducking his head back toward the crate. "There's a tunnel in the back that goes through to the other side of the island. We can escape that way." He surreptitiously set a knife on the ground and kicked it over. "Get ready to move."

Aramis scooped it up. "Luca," he whispered.

The boy looked over, brow furrowing for a moment before it slackened in surprise at the sight of Porthos. Luca nudged his brother, then Herbert to get his attention.

"_¡Oye! ¿Qué haces?_"

Aramis stiffened.

Porthos stayed bowed over the crate and tried to ignore the question, but the man across the cave was on his feet and looking their direction intently.

"_¡Escucha! ¡Te estoy hablando, tonto!_"

"Tell him, '_Sólo extravié algo_,'" Aramis hissed.

Porthos's jaw ticked but he straightened without turning around. "Solo extravyalgo!" he called over his shoulder.

Aramis winced at his blatant French accent and the way he butchered the last two words. The pirate shouted to his companions and they all jumped up in response.

"They had to be Spanish," Porthos growled as he whirled around and drew a sword.

Aramis twisted toward Luca and sawed through the rope around the boy's wrists. He then flipped the handle around and held it out so Luca could do the same for him.

"Free the others," he said urgently once the rope fell away and leaped to his feet in search of a weapon.

Porthos had charged forward to meet two attackers head on, the clash of blades screeching through the air. A third pirate ran at Aramis and he ducked under the swing of the man's sword. Coming up again on his outside, Aramis threw a punch at his jaw that knocked him to the ground senseless. Then he snatched up the man's sword for himself.

A pistol shot echoed through the cave like thunder and Aramis flinched, whirling in search of the threat. But he didn't see an army of pirates swarming through the cave opening.

"This way!" Porthos urged.

Aramis gave himself a sharp shake and turned to help usher the others toward where Porthos was indicating, taking up the rear to cover them from behind. All he could see of the back of the cavern was a dead end, but Porthos had said there was a tunnel there. And then two figures stepped out seemingly from nowhere and one threw a dagger past the escaping prisoners to fell a pursuer.

Aramis pulled up short in stunned disbelief at the sight of the second man. It was d'Artagnan, here, alive, and whole… Aramis surged forward and pulled him into a fierce hug.

D'Artagnan gave him a quick pat on the back, then leaned away to look at him with a smirk. "Nice to see you too."

"We are busy escaping here, gentlemen," Athos's dry voice interrupted, but there was no censure in it.

Aramis was overwhelmed with relief at seeing all _three_ of them and almost took the time to embrace the swordsman just to be cheeky, but the fourth pirate had run to the mouth of the cave and was raising the alarm.

Athos waved everyone toward a tunnel branching off from the main cavern and they filed inside. It was dark and there was a lot of stumbling as the group pressed in around each other. But then a soft glow began to filter down the shaft. Athos picked up a lantern from the ground and led the way through the passage until they came out the other side onto a sandy beach. The sun was just touching the horizon and setting the ocean on fire.

Athos guided the group up a ridge, giving Aramis his first real look at the island, which was a rather sparse plateau that did not offer much cover or resources, it looked like. They hiked down another slope back to sea level, and Aramis was breathing heavily by the time they reached a cave that appeared to be another pirates' den, though currently uninhabited. Athos set the lantern on top of a barrel, filling the cave with soft illumination as they all spread out inside.

Aramis sought out d'Artagnan again now that they had reached shelter, his eyes urgently looking the young Gascon over more carefully, still bewildered over how he could be here and alive. "I thought…I saw you go over and disappear in the water." His shoulders were heaving with his labored breaths but it probably came across as though he were simply overcome with emotion.

D'Artagnan grimaced. "Yeah, I'm lucky I didn't drown. I don't remember much, just waking up washed up on a beach alone. Ran into Athos shortly after that. Then we found Porthos in time to rescue him from drowning in a sea cave."

Aramis shot his friend an alarmed look. How close he had come to losing each of them.

"Showed up in the nick of time," Porthos said gruffly. "Scared the livin' daylights outta me. Kinda like the look you gave me back there," he added with a smirk and bumped Aramis's shoulder with his.

D'Artagnan grinned. "Guess we all seem to have found favor with Lady Luck."

Aramis let out a laugh born of relief and joy, but it quickly devolved into a relentless series of choking coughs that nearly bowed him double. He felt hands gripping his shoulders as he rode out the attack that left his ribs aching and throat burning. When he looked up, both d'Artagnan and Porthos were gazing at him worriedly.

"You okay?" Porthos asked with a frown.

Aramis waved him off. "Fine," he said, though the croak in his voice didn't echo with confidence. "Just swallowed a bit too much seawater." It would be a problem later, he knew, but since there was nothing to be done for it now, there was no sense in drawing attention to it.

Athos appeared in front of him. "There's brandy here, but I think it would actually make matters worse."

D'Artagnan snorted. "Yeah, you don't want to drink it."

Aramis tried to smile. "I'm alright. It's just been a long twenty-four hours. As it has been for all of us."

Athos swept his gaze over the crew of the _Aigrette_. "We should rest for the night, then make plans in the morning. Were you all given food and water?"

"A little," Luca replied. "The pirates were keeping us to sell as slaves."

Porthos's expression hardened with fury at that.

"There is some cured meat here," Athos went on. "And some brandy. We'll set a watch, but there are many caves and hopefully the pirates will not attempt to search for us at night."

With nods of agreement, the men started to settle in, pulling tarpaulins off crates and laying them out to sleep on. Athos went around assigning the watch, splitting it between almost everyone so that they could all get as much rest as possible. Aramis was dead on his feet, his muscles achy with the beginnings of a fever, but he wasn't the only one hurting and wounded.

"Do you have any hurts I should know about?" he abruptly thought to ask. His brothers had seemed fine when they'd swooped in with their heroic rescue, but appearances could be deceiving, especially after the brief tale of what they'd endured.

"Nothin' serious," Porthos replied, eyeing him skeptically as though the question should be redirected back at himself.

Aramis nodded. "I should check Clerc's shoulder, find something to make a sling…"

"I can do it," d'Artagnan spoke up.

He started to turn away and Aramis grabbed his arm. D'Artagnan froze and quirked a confused look at him. Aramis's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Words never failed him in prayer or when charming a woman, but in this moment he found himself humbled beyond speech. So he simply reached up and gave the lad's cheek a fond pat, hoping that simple gesture conveyed the depth of his gratitude at having the young Gascon back.

D'Artagnan returned it with a soft smile, then went to see Clerc.

"Come on," Porthos said. "Let's get some rest."

Tugging at Aramis's arm, he guided him over to a length of canvas someone had spread out. Aramis lay down on one end, his eyelids suddenly weighted to the point he could barely keep them open. Voices murmured around him, but he drifted off easily knowing everything was okay now that his brothers were here.


	5. Chapter 5

Porthos was thankfully too exhausted to mind the hard knobby ground and he was asleep within minutes of laying down on the stretch of tarpaulin. He came to some time later when someone started shaking his shoulder lightly but persistently. Porthos snuffled as he pried his eyelids open, sticky lashes coated in brine trying to keep them glued shut. Athos was crouched beside him, expression patient as he waited for Porthos to fully wake. It must have been time for his watch.

Porthos pushed himself up onto one arm and rubbed the grit from his eyes. A cough sounded behind him, a deep, coarse croup that rattled like gravel. Porthos twisted to see Aramis curled on his side facing the wall. He couldn't tell if the marksman was asleep, though Aramis wasn't acknowledging them. Minute tremors rippled across his frame.

"He's sick," Porthos said bluntly, quietly.

Athos's expression was grim. "Tonight's rest might help."

"Doesn't sound like he's gettin' much." Porthos sat up and then pushed himself to his feet. "How long has he been like this?" he whispered.

Athos moved back. "At least since my watch started. D'Artagnan didn't wake him for his and stayed up longer instead."

Porthos's mouth turned down. He couldn't believe Aramis's discomfort hadn't woken him; after Savoy, he'd become so accustomed to waking at the first hint of Aramis's nightmares. But those hadn't been so frequent in recent years and Porthos had been utterly spent last night after his own ordeal of almost drowning and freezing to death.

Athos shared a look with him, and then lay down in the space Porthos had vacated, scooting close until his back was pressed against Aramis's. Porthos moved toward the mouth of the cave for his watch but kept his gaze on the dark lumps of his friends. Aramis's coughs were more muted as the lap of the ocean waves outside added their chorus to the mix but Porthos could still see the shake of his shoulders.

He leaned his arms on his thighs and wrung his hands. Aramis was obviously sick, had most likely known it too last night even though he'd told them he was fine. Porthos clenched his jaw angrily. Damn Aramis for trying to keep this from them. How long did he think he was gonna be able to hide it, anyway?

Porthos hung his head between his shoulders. They had no medicine, not even fresh water. Aramis wouldn't say anything because there was nothing they could do about it while stranded out here. He'd stoically endure and do his best to keep going because there was no other choice until they got off this damn island.

The gray hue of twilight gradually filtered into the sky, heralding the arrival of dawn. It would be time to rouse everyone soon so they could figure out what they were going to do about their situation.

Porthos caught a hint of a whisper carried on the breeze from outside—and it sounded like Spanish. He snatched up a sword and crept to the edge of the cave opening. Soft footfalls brushed through sand, coming closer. Porthos pressed himself against the rock wall and waited.

When a figure came around the edge, Porthos threw an arm around the guy's neck and pulled him close, trapping him in a headlock. The man flailed and sputtered in surprise, his sword hanging forgotten in his hand as three more men came swooping in. Porthos used the first as a human shield as he brought his sword up.

"Ambush!" he hollered.

Swords collided with a strident clang. Porthos pushed back two of the pirates, but the fourth was ducking around to come at him from the side. He flung his hostage back at the first two, knocking them all down for a brief moment, and spun to engage the other.

Athos and d'Artagnan came charging forth with brandished blades and leaped past Porthos toward the others. Steel screeched and chimed in a discordant cacophony as the musketeers held the attackers at bay. Porthos bore his full weight down on his opponent, driving him back against the cave wall. The pirate's foot slipped on an uneven rock and he fell backward. Porthos followed him down with a thrust of his blade, piercing through the man's jerkin and out his back. He yanked the sword back out with a jerk and pivoted toward the others, but Athos and d'Artagnan had deftly dispatched the rest of them.

D'Artagnan stepped outside the cave and cast a quick look up and down the beach. "Just four?" he mused out loud.

"A scouting party," Athos said.

"They must really want their _commodities_ back," Porthos sneered and kicked one of the dead pirates in disgust.

"Fortunate for us, as it means the pirate ship hasn't left the island." Athos turned to the crew of the _Aigrette_. "Can you sail a ship with your reduced numbers?"

Herbert exchanged looks with the others. "Yes," he replied. "In fair weather and since Guernsey isn't far."

"Yer talkin' about tryin' to take the pirate ship," Porthos said. "That's a tall order." He cast a furtive glance over the men of the _Aigrette_. Sailors weren't soldiers, though a few looked capable of fighting.

"It's our only way off the island," Athos pointed out. He turned to Aramis, who was leaning against some barrels. "Were you able to get a count of how many men they have?"

"A dozen came and went from the cave at a time, but I don't know how many would be on the ship."

"At least another dozen, most likely," Herbert interjected. "Maybe more."

"How do we even get on the ship?" d'Artagnan asked. "Swim?"

"Better we draw them off it," Porthos said. He picked up a handheld bomb from one of the crates. "This'll cause quite the distraction."

"They might shore up on the ship if they think they're under attack," Athos countered. "We'll have to be more subtle." He pursed his mouth for a moment in thought. "We could set fire to their supplies, lure them ashore in an attempt to salvage it."

Porthos bobbed his head in appreciation of that.

"They'll know about the back entrance now and be watching it," d'Artagnan said.

Athos sighed. "D'Artagnan's right. And there's not enough cover to sneak in from the front."

D'Artagnan folded his arms across his chest. "We could go up to the cliff above it, scale down to the opening, and toss something in to catch fire. A bottle of brandy with a lit rag stuffed in the top?"

"Are you crazy?" Porthos blurted.

The boy shrugged. "I already climbed one cliff yesterday; what's another one? The pirate crew will row in to save their stash and we can take them by surprise on the beach."

Silence filled the cave as they all considered the plan's merit. It wasn't like Porthos was averse to harebrained schemes, though usually he was the one volunteering for them. But their young Gascon was proving himself a musketeer more and more.

"It seems our best option," Athos finally said. "But there is another problem of the island not having much cover, so approaching either the beach or cliffs without being seen will be difficult, especially if there are more search parties out looking for us."

"They'll focus on this side of the island though," d'Artagnan spoke up eagerly. "We can go through the tunnel in the back here to the cave Porthos was in and come in from that side."

Porthos automatically stiffened at that idea. "You don't even know if you can get out that way," he protested.

"I'll go look."

D'Artagnan turned on his heel and in the next moment was climbing up to the narrow tunnel and crawling inside. Porthos gritted his teeth in displeasure. He was _not_ going for another swim.

"Everyone arm yourselves," Athos instructed. Then he moved over to Aramis, who had been unnaturally quiet through the discussion.

Porthos inched closer as well as Athos angled away from the others and lowered his voice.

"How are you? And the truth."

Aramis's expression was a paradox of resignation and resolve. "I've been better," he admitted. "But I'll manage. You need every man for this."

"We have fought with worse."

"As have I." He broke off to muffle a cough in the crook of his elbow, and when he spoke again there was a crackle to his voice. "I'll set up somewhere with some muskets and stay out of the main fight."

Athos nodded sagely. "Go with d'Artagnan up to the cliff. You can cover him while he's up there and then pick off men when they land on the shore."

Aramis ducked his gaze in agreement.

Scuffing drew their attention up to the tunnel as d'Artagnan returned.

"The cave entrance is filled with water," he reported, "but it's shallow and we can walk through it to the outside."

"Then that is our course," Athos declared. "Let's gather what supplies we'll need. We head out in ten minutes."

"Luca," Aramis called. "Can you load a musket?"

The cabin boy shifted where he stood. "Um, not really. But I can learn," he added earnestly.

"And I can help," Clerc put in. "I doubt I'll be of much use in a fight," he said, indicating his wounded shoulder. "But I can hold a musket still with one hand while Luca loads it."

Aramis gave them a smile of approval. "Come, I'll show you how it's done."

While he instructed the brothers and loaded up what muskets were in the cave, Porthos helped d'Artagnan put together a bucket of what he would need to start this whole thing off—brandy and rags soaked in oil, a flint, and some of those handheld bombs, just in case.

Once they were all armed as much as possible, they filed one by one through the tunnel into the other sea cave and splashed through the shallow surf to reach the beach, ready to make their stand.

o.0.o

D'Artagnan split off from the group with Aramis, Luca, and Clerc to ascend the ridge to the main part of the island and make their way to the cliffs. One good thing about no cover among the shrubbery meant the pirates couldn't take them by surprise either, and d'Artagnan wasn't seeing anyone over in this area looking for them. Hopefully they'd reach their destination without incident.

He glanced over his shoulder at Aramis, mouth pinching with worry. The marksman's attention was mostly on the ground, like he needed to watch every step lest he trip. D'Artagnan could hear the wheezes rattling in his chest with each breath and it made his own constrict with concern. He knew how grave an illness in the lungs could become. But the only way to get Aramis help was to get off this island. And even ill, he was still the best shot among them and they could use his marksmanship.

They reached the cliff above the pirate den and set down their gear. Aramis went to find a perch to set up at and d'Artagnan inched toward the edge to gauge where he should secure the grappling hook for the climbing rope. He lined his trajectory up with the side of the cave's mouth and then found a chunk of rock to dig the iron claws into. He tugged on the rope to test its security and, satisfied, threw it over the edge.

"You sure about this?" Aramis asked.

D'Artagnan looked down and swallowed hard. He wasn't sure whether the descent was going to be worse than yesterday's ascent, but at least this time he had a rope. He shrugged in response; he'd ask the same back, but they both knew what the answer would be. Besides, there was no turning back now.

Gripping the rope, d'Artagnan turned his back to the horizon and slowly began to ease over the edge. His boots slipped on loose gravel in a couple of places and his hands burned with the friction of the rope even inside the protective layer of his gloves, but he kept at it, slow and steady. The top lip of the cave opening came closer and d'Artagnan found a short ledge with just enough breadth to support most of his weight and balance so he wouldn't have to hang onto the rope the entire time. Pressing himself flush with the cliff face, he looked up and caught Luca's eye as the boy leaned over the edge watching him. D'Artagnan waved to signal him.

Luca disappeared for a few moments but then returned and slowly lowered a bucket on a second line of rope down. Inside were the supplies d'Artagnan and Porthos had packed earlier. D'Artagnan pulled out the bottle of brandy with the rag already stuffed down the bottleneck. Then he grabbed the flint and struck it against the stone to catch the fabric. Flames whooshed over the oil soaked rag. Holding the bottle in one hand and the rope in the other, d'Artagnan leaned out as far as he could and surveyed what he could see of the interior of the cave. There was a pile of canvas near the front, and he prayed for good aim as he tossed the bottle.

He hissed a triumphant "yes!" when it landed in the heap. The bottle broke and flames rushed out like water, quickly catching the tarps on fire and spewing dark smoke out through the opening. D'Artagnan pressed himself back against the cliff, hoping the browns of his clothes were enough to keep him concealed from those out on the ship.

It only took a few minutes for the rowboats to disembark from the pirate vessel. D'Artagnan smirked; their plan was working. As soon as the pirates landed on the beach, d'Artagnan lit the match cords of two bombs and waited as the men dashed into the cave. Then he dropped the bombs, less concerned with their aim. The following explosions rocked through the cavern and reverberated through the rocks at d'Artagnan's back.

He saw Athos and Porthos break from their cover down the beach and charge, the sailors right behind them. Pirates scrambled back out of the smoking cave, and those not seriously injured in the explosions spotted the incoming assault and turned to meet them.

D'Artagnan held tight to the rope, giving it another tug to double check the resistance, and then he stepped off the ledge and swung down toward the ground to join his brothers.


	6. Chapter 6

Aramis crouched on one knee, musket raised, and sighted down the barrel. It was a strain to hold that position, the muscles in his arms and shoulders quivering, and his chest hurt with each shallow breath. Trying to breathe any deeper would shake his already precarious steadiness, which meant that firing a weapon was going to be difficult and unpleasant. But he would manage. His brothers were counting on him.

He took aim at the skirmish breaking out below, taking that extra beat to line up his shot carefully, falling back on training and technique rather than instinct. Aramis squeezed the trigger, and a pirate bringing up the rear of the charge against the musketeers went sprawling face first in the sand.

Aramis quickly exchanged the spent musket for another and took aim again while Luca and Clerc worked to reload. He fired again, his shot finding its mark. The recoil jolted through his shoulder with more force than usual. Or it was simply that his weakened body was feeling each tiny abuse more harshly.

He lined up for a third, but just as he was about to shoot, a cough abruptly punched its way up from his lungs. His finger contracted on the trigger even as his aim was thrown, and the shot echoed loudly in his ears. He wasn't able to see where the misfired musket ball had landed, whether he'd missed entirely or God forbid hit one of their own, as he bowed over, hacking violently, his ribs jarring with each guttural heave. He couldn't breathe.

Hands grasped at his shoulders trying to brace him. By the time the fit had passed, Aramis was teetering to the side. Sweat ran down his face and stung his eyes. He was freezing one second and burning the next under the hot sun. Wheezing hoarsely, he wiped at his eyes with his sleeve and forced himself to straighten. Luca and Clerc were staring at him worriedly.

Aramis didn't trust himself to speak without igniting another coughing fit, so he simply gestured at them to hand him another musket. Luca pressed one into his hands. Aramis stretched out on his stomach this time, crawling right up to the edge of the cliff. It didn't give him the best angle, and lying on his chest was also constricting his already strained breathing, but at least he was steadier. A quick scan of the beach showed none of his brothers had been struck down yet, and it didn't look as though his misfire had been disastrous for anyone else.

He found a target and fired, sending another body to the ground. His brothers were whirlwinds of clashing steel below, cutting through their foes with fierce determination. These pirates were men of cutthroat violence and murder, but they had never faced the likes of the King's Musketeers before.

"Aramis!" Luca shouted.

Aramis rolled over and saw three pirates advancing on them from behind. He'd already fired the musket in his hands so he tossed it aside and lurched to his feet, drawing his borrowed sword instead. He was in no fit state to fight, which was why he was supposed to be staying _out_ of it, but neither Luca nor Clerc were trained soldiers.

Aramis lumbered forward and threw up his blade to block the strike of the pirate that reached him first. The reverberation rattled through his forearm and he cursed his weakness as he nearly stumbled. He was too out of breath for this, but he fought with everything he had, ignoring the burn in his chest as he jabbed and parried clumsily. He could barely take on one swordsman at a time, let alone three.

Though he was loathe to give ground, Aramis was forced to scramble backward to give himself enough space to draw a dagger, which he threw through the air. It flew end over end and buried the blade hilt deep in one man's chest, taking him down. Another sword came arcing toward him and Aramis nearly lost his balance ducking under the swing. He brought his own sword up haphazardly, the peal of colliding metal screeching through his aching head. His lungs were screaming and any minute he expected to be assaulted by another coughing fit, so he lunged wildly, somehow slipping past the pirate's defenses and stabbing him in the stomach.

But he couldn't recover in time to avoid the third who suddenly body slammed him, throwing him to the ground. The wind whooshed from his lungs, chased by a horrible, gasping spasm. Aramis tried to suck precious oxygen back in but failed, and he was abruptly reminded of the sensation of drowning as he lay on his back, desperate guttural heaves jerking his entire body. The pirate loomed over him, blade raised to run him through.

Then a pistol shot cracked the air, and the ruffian dropped.

Aramis blinked through spotty vision as he turned his head toward Clerc, who was holding a smoking pistol. Oxygen finally broke through the blockage with burning intensity, searing his throat and lungs as he managed to suck it in like a gaping fish. His lungs rebelled, and Aramis curled onto his side with a cry as more coughs tried to break straight through his ribs.

When it mercifully ceased, he dropped his head back against the ground and lay there shivering under the blazing sun. He wouldn't be getting up again, he knew that. He'd done what he could and now it was up to his brothers to win the battle.

o.0.o

Athos had never fought on a beach before, and the sand was proving to be a hindrance: catching his feet and inhibiting his ability to pivot and spin smoothly. A timely shot from above saved him from being cut down by an enemy when he couldn't recover his balance in time.

At least the terrain served to hamper them all equally, and Athos got a few lucky strikes in when his opponents tripped in the sand themselves. He saw d'Artagnan swing down from the cliff side and engage the pirates near the smoking cave. Athos angled his trajectory to fight his way toward the young Gascon.

The sailors of the _Aigrette_ hung back, fighting as much as they could with those pirates who broke through the line Athos and Porthos created. Athos spared a glance toward the pirate ship to make sure no more reinforcements were rowing in to overwhelm them. Fortunately, there weren't.

He slashed his blade across his current foe's chest and whirled to find the next, only to notice that the clang of steel had died down. Bodies lay strewn everywhere but a quick survey of those still standing revealed they had not lost anyone. With the beach won, it was time to take the ship.

Athos raised his blade. "To the boats!"

They all spurred down the beach to the shore and clambered into the rowboats. They had tried to save their pistol shots during the battle on the beach and now pulled them out to hold at the ready. Athos scanned the deck of the pirate ship for any that had stayed behind. He spotted the barrel of a pistol extend out over the bulwark and aimed his own toward the small gap in the rim. He fired first. Someone yelped and a body pitched forward to splash into the sea.

Another shot fired from the bow but missed. Porthos returned fire, and another scream confirmed the hit.

They reached the ship and began to climb aboard. Athos hauled himself over the bulwark and onto the deck just as several men came running up from below with raging battle cries. Now that he was on firmer ground, Athos met them with the finesse and surety of his swordsmanship, slaying the first with a single strike.

Another charged forward, a grizzly man in a hat whose face was red with rage. Spittle flew from his mouth as he lunged at Athos. Their blades crossed with a strident screech but Athos swiftly drove the pirate back. His opponent hurled something in Spanish at him that sounded scathing. Athos didn't waste his breath with words and responded with a final thrust through the man's chest. A startled gasp was the last sound the pirate made before dropping to the deck with a thud.

Athos turned and watched Porthos and d'Artagnan dispatch the last of the pirates that had shown themselves. "Check the rest of the ship," he ordered.

As Porthos and d'Artagnan headed below deck, Athos turned to the crew of the _Aigrette_. He was not their captain, but the role of leadership was currently vacant and all too easy for him to step into.

"Get us ready to sail and inventory the supplies onboard. If we need to, we can try to salvage what's left in the cave. It'll do us no good to head to Guernsey if we're not equipped to make it there."

The crew nodded and headed off to see to things. Porthos and d'Artagnan returned a few minutes later to report that the rest of the ship was empty.

"No prisoners?" Athos asked. He had been hoping that perhaps there were more survivors who had been captured and taken to the ship instead of the cave.

Porthos shook his head grimly, likely having hoped for the same. Too many lives had been lost here.

"Let's clear the deck," Athos said stoically.

The musketeers worked in silence as they began to drag the corpses to the bulwark and throw them overboard. They were just finishing when Herbert walked over.

"A lot of the supplies from the _Aigrette_ were brought over here, so we're well stocked and ready to go."

Athos nodded. "Good. Then we just need to pick up Aramis, Luca, and Clerc and then we can set sail." They could not get away from this island fast enough.

He turned to the bulwark and scanned the beach for the last three of their group to come down from the cliffs.

"What's takin' 'em so long?" Porthos said gruffly, but the impatience held an undercurrent of worry.

Athos spotted a spyglass lying around and scooped it up, tilting it up toward the top of the cliffs. He hadn't expected Aramis to fire at the pirate ship from that distance, so the marksman either should have started down to the beach as soon as the rest of them had begun their assault on the ship, or waited until it looked like they had won. Either way, there had been ample amount of time for them to have come down.

The top of the cliffs were bare, so Athos turned, sweeping the spyglass along the ridge and down to where he knew the closest path was. He finally spotted three figures slowly making their way down…and his heart sank. Aramis was being supported between both Clerc and Luca and their pace was halting as they carefully tried to keep their balance on the precarious slope.

"They're coming," he said, lowering the spyglass.

Porthos visibly tensed at his tone and snatched the spyglass up to look for himself. His shoulders stiffened.

"We're going back ashore to retrieve the others," Athos told the crew.

Then he, Porthos, and d'Artagnan climbed back down into one of the rowboats and Porthos rowed them back to the beach. Once they were near the shore, Athos and d'Artagnan hopped out to drag the boat up onto the sand. Aramis and the others were just reaching the bottom of the cliffs by that time.

Porthos jogged ahead to reach them first, ducking forward to take one of the marksman's arms from Clerc. D'Artagnan swiftly took Luca's place, his eyes wide and worried as he took in Aramis's state. He was sagging in their hold and shivering, hoarse coughs sputtering weakly between every other wheezing breath.

Athos frowned at how quickly his condition had deteriorated, and he took off a glove to touch the back of his hand to Aramis's brow. The heat he felt was alarming. "What happened?"

"Some pirates came up to our position," Clerc answered. "Maybe through the back of the cave on the other side of the island. He fought them off. Killed two. I shot the third."

Athos swallowed a sigh of dismay. He had been so focused in the battle that he hadn't even noticed when Aramis's cover fire had ceased. Not that he would've been able to do anything about it if he had—their mission had been to take the ship and it would have taken too long to send someone up to the cliffs to check on Aramis's position.

"You were supposed ta stay outta the fight," Porthos chided.

Aramis, struggling to breathe as he was, didn't even muster a response. He merely doubled over under another barrage of coughs, his knees buckling. Only Porthos and d'Artagnan keeping a hold of him kept him from dropping to the ground.

Porthos's jaw ticked with worry and he hiked Aramis's arm higher over his shoulder. "Let's get the hell outta here."

They shuffled their way back to the rowboat and climbed inside. This time d'Artagnan took up the oars as Porthos held Aramis slumped against him. The marksman's skin was red, though they were all a bit sunburned from their time roaming the island. But they not only had the lung congestion to worry about but dehydration as well.

Perhaps Athos should have insisted Aramis stay behind in the cave and completely out of the action. The exertion had obviously been detrimental to his already waning health.

Yet Athos also knew that Aramis had helped keep them safe during the battle. Without him up on that cliff with his muskets, they could have had more casualties, which could have thwarted their ability to take the pirate ship.

No, they'd needed Aramis, and Aramis knew that. He went into battle knowing that, and Athos had let him.

Athos just hoped the cost to his brother wasn't a permanent price they couldn't bear to pay.


	7. Chapter 7

When the rowboat reached the pirate ship, Porthos laid Aramis down in the bottom of the boat and climbed up with the others. Then they used the pulley to heave the dinghy up out of the water and secure it to the hull. Once that was done, he hopped back in to retrieve his sick friend and lift him up to Athos and d'Artagnan. Aramis was barely conscious for it.

"Set sail," Athos commanded then, and the crew of the _Aigrette_ darted about to get the ship moving.

"Do we take him below?" d'Artagnan asked uncertainly.

Porthos's jaw tightened at that; the berth deck where the crew were housed wasn't exactly sanitary.

"Captain's cabin," Athos replied.

They carried Aramis across the deck and into the cabin beneath the quarterdeck. Porthos wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but the bed with heavy quilt and two pillows seemed rather opulent for what he imagined a pirate would reside in. But he supposed the captain would keep the niceties for himself when his crew plundered and pillaged.

There was a long table with two three-pronged candlestick holders, a wardrobe along one wall, some low cabinets beneath the back window, and a large chest at the foot of the bed.

They laid Aramis on the mattress and divested him of his boots and doublet, then tucked him under the quilt. He was shivering, his coughs guttural and crackling. Porthos exchanged a worried look with Athos.

The line of Athos's mouth was grim. "I'll go speak with the crew, see how far out we are from Guernsey."

"I'll find some water," d'Artagnan said and followed him out.

Porthos dragged a chair from the table over to the bed and took a seat, wringing his hands as he watched Aramis continue to cough and struggle to breathe. After a few moments, he stood and fluffed the two pillows behind Aramis, elevating him a bit. When he sat back down, slitted brown eyes were gazing at him with fever brightness.

Porthos leaned forward on the bed. "Hey. How're you feelin'?"

Another cough was his answer and Aramis's face scrunched up in pain.

"Yeah, never mind."

Aramis lolled his head back toward him and patted his hand weakly. "Don' be angry," he croaked.

Porthos shook his head. "I ain't angry at you."

It'd been easy to act like it when he'd first seen how bad off Aramis was, easy to blame him for pushing himself too hard, especially when "reckless" was Aramis's middle name. But he hadn't intentionally put himself in harm's way up there. None of them had signed up for this.

A ghost of a smile tugged at bloodless lips but it was quickly replaced with a grimace as another cough wracked Aramis's frame. Porthos watched helplessly. Normally he'd ask Aramis what herbs to steep in a tea to help, but they had none at their disposal.

The door creaked open with d'Artagnan's return and the lad shuffled in with a bucket of water, which he carried over and set next to the bed.

"There's nothing fresh onboard," he said regretfully, though that wasn't unexpected. There was a reason brandy was the drink of choice on the sea. "So I pulled it up from the ocean. Not the best solution, but it's cold and we can at least use it to try to lower his fever."

Porthos nodded. They were all covered in the grit of sand and dried sea salt and wouldn't have a chance to wash it off until they reached Guernsey.

D'Artagnan moved to the foot of the bed and flipped open the chest on the floor, rifling through the contents. He removed an extra blanket but the rest he left haphazardly disturbed as he shut the lid and moved to the cabinets below the window next. There he found some towels which he brought back to Porthos.

"Looks like the captain has his own private food stores. More pickled meat and sour brandy."

Usually Porthos could eat anything, but this time those did not sound appetizing. "I don' think he'll be able to get either of those down."

D'Artagnan shared a sympathetic look with him. "Yeah, I wouldn't try. But we should probably keep up our strength."

Porthos dunked a towel in the bucket of water and then wrung it out.

"You know that's what he'd tell you," d'Artagnan pointed out.

Porthos folded the cold cloth over Aramis's brow and sighed. "Yeah, I know."

D'Artagnan went back to the cabinet to pull out the stores.

Aramis gave a shudder and jerked his head to the side. "Cold," he muttered.

Porthos adjusted the cloth and held his hand over it to keep it in place. "I know you feel that way, but yer actually burnin' up."

Aramis coughed softly and then harder, nearly lurching up off the bed as horrible, violent hacks assaulted him. D'Artagnan ran back over and grabbed Aramis's shoulders, him and Porthos bracing him through the attack. Aramis sagged when it was over, wheezing sharply, eyes closed as though he'd passed out. Porthos and d'Artagnan carefully eased him back against the pillows.

"I've heard of men breakin' ribs from coughs that bad," Porthos said quietly, barely audible over Aramis's strained breathing.

D'Artagnan's throat bobbed, and he pulled the quilt down to run his fingers over Aramis's torso. "I don't think anything's broken."

The unspoken "yet" hung in the air like a guillotine.

Porthos felt his own lungs constricting. His mother had sounded like that before she died.

"Aramis is strong," d'Artagnan spoke again. "And we've all made it this far."

Porthos sank back into his chair and picked up the cool cloth again. He hoped d'Artagnan was right.

o.0.o

They made it to Guernsey without any further incident. Athos immediately left the ship to find a physician on the island and d'Artagnan and Porthos stayed with Aramis. It was painful to watch him besieged by coughing fit after coughing fit that drew choked cries of pain between desperate gasps for air. Though d'Artagnan had checked a few more times for cracked ribs and not found any, he suspected that at this point, they had to be at least bruised. Porthos was worried enough already so d'Artagnan kept that to himself.

It was almost an hour later when Athos finally returned, carrying a litter.

"The authorities are seizing the ship," he reported. "I've secured some rooms at an inn and the town's physician will meet us there."

He set the litter on the floor and d'Artagnan helped Porthos transfer Aramis to it. Then they carried their friend out of the cabin and down the gangplank where a cart was apparently waiting for them.

"How'd you pay for all this?" d'Artagnan whispered to Athos once Aramis was laid in the back and they were setting off toward the inn. His own coin purse had been lost in the wreck, as he was sure Athos's had as well.

Athos shrugged. "There was plenty of gold lying around."

D'Artagnan shook his head in amusement. He frankly couldn't think of a better use for it than compensation for them and the crew of the _Aigrette_. He wondered how much Athos had pocketed before the authorities had taken over, given they were likely to be stuck here for a while.

They arrived at the inn where a wiry man with white hair and spectacles was waiting inside, a Doctor Nouwen as Athos introduced him. They carried Aramis upstairs and laid him on one of the beds, then stepped back for the physician to do his examination.

The old man leaned over and pressed his ear to Aramis's chest. Then he directed Porthos to hold the marksman up so the doctor could do the same at his back.

"An infection of the lungs," he declared.

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes; that much was obvious. "Can you treat it?"

"I will make up an herbal mixture, but you'll have to get him to drink it. Also, I will show you how to break loose the congestion to help get it out." He gestured at Porthos. "Hold him up a little straighter, like this."

Porthos adjusted his hold as instructed.

Doctor Nouwen grabbed a bowl and set it in Aramis's lap, then moved around to lean behind him. Without warning, he raised a hand and slapped Aramis on the back, hard enough to jolt his entire body.

"Oy!" Porthos exclaimed.

"As I said, this will help to dislodge the build-up in his lungs." The physician hit him again, then a third time.

Aramis suddenly lurched with a cough and gagging sound, and d'Artagnan cringed as phlegm and mucus came up. It was disgusting, but the treatment appeared to be working. D'Artagnan paid closer attention to the procedure as the doctor repeated his demonstration.

"Do this three times a day until he coughs up some of that gunk, but no more than eight strikes in one sitting if nothing does," Nouwen instructed as he removed the bowl and Porthos laid Aramis back down.

"What about his ribs?" Porthos asked. "He's already coughin' so much…won't we risk breakin' 'em?"

"The strain is concentrated on the front," Nouwen replied. "And he will not get better if the build-up is allowed to fester."

"We understand," d'Artagnan put in. He could understand why Porthos might be afraid to exert too much force on their weakened friend, so he could take on that unpleasant task himself.

Nouwen moved to the table where he'd set his bag. "I will make up several herbal pouches for you to steep and give him throughout the day. He must drink as much as you can ply him with. I will return in a day to check his progress."

Athos thanked the man and paid him after he had prepared the pouches. After that, the only thing left for them to do was settle in and tend their brother.

The innkeeper sent up water to the washroom down the hall and they took turns going to bathe. The man also generously loaned them some of his and his grown sons' old clothes to wear since theirs were stiff and gritty from brine. The shirt d'Artagnan slipped into had moth holes in it but he didn't think he had ever felt so clean.

Despite Aramis's condition, they all decided that washing off the stickiness and grime would make a world of difference, as it had for them, so they carried him to the washroom and Porthos held him up in the tub while d'Artagnan and Athos quickly scrubbed him down and rinsed his hair of the remnants of the sea. He wasn't coherent through it, which was probably for the best.

Once all that was taken care of, exhaustion began to creep into d'Artagnan's bones, dragging his shoulders down.

"You should go sleep," Athos said. "The room next door is ours as well."

D'Artagnan stubbornly shook his head, trying to dispel the fatigue. "Aramis…"

"We'll have to take turns for the first day," Athos cut him off. "We are all weary and must rest. The next few days won't be easy." He glanced back at their sick brother.

D'Artagnan sighed; he knew Athos was right.

"You two sleep first," Porthos spoke up from Aramis's bedside with an unmovable tone that surprised no one.

Athos nodded and moved toward the door. "Bang on the wall if you need us."

o.0.o

The next few days were, in fact, tiring. Athos was unfortunately called away frequently to deal with the authorities and reports about what transpired when the _Aigrette_ shipwrecked and ran afoul of pirates, leaving d'Artagnan and Porthos to care for Aramis, who was so lost in the throes of illness that he could barely follow what was going on around him. But he drank the tea they plied him with, though not without difficulty when a coughing fit interrupted and tried to choke him. D'Artagnan oversaw Doctor Nouwen's prescribed treatment of pounding his back until he coughed up globs of phlegm. Aramis often choked out cries of pain during the sessions, which pulled at d'Artagnan's heart. But he had to trust that the procedure was helping, and so steeled himself to keep at it.

Since Porthos refused to leave Aramis's side except to sleep, d'Artagnan also took on the task of washing their clothes, which was also labor intensive and took him several days to complete. But the scrubbing gave him a place to work out his frustration over having to cause his friend pain.

One afternoon Athos returned with a large bundle, and when he laid it out on the table, d'Artagnan was shocked to see it was all of their weapons.

"What kind o' witchcraft is that?" Porthos blurted.

Athos shot him a wry look. "The pirates looted a lot of our belongings from the _Aigrette_. It was a hassle proving they were ours and getting them released."

Porthos picked up one of Aramis's ornate pistols. "He'll be glad to have these back."

Athos turned toward the bed. "How is he?"

"He seems to be sleeping easier," d'Artagnan replied. "Doctor Nouwen was here an hour ago and said at least he's not deteriorating. That's something."

Athos canted his head in agreement. "One thing that apparently wasn't salvaged, unfortunately, were the trade papers." He paused. "Meaning our entire mission has been lost and the King will have to draft new ones to resend."

"Hell no," Porthos exclaimed. "Let's jus' tell 'im the gove'ner here declined the terms."

"Porthos," Athos chided.

"Maybe the captain can just assign someone else," d'Artagnan suggested. Because he, also, did not want to have to come back here and do this all over again.

o.0.o

It was a long, tense week before Aramis finally began to show tangible signs of improvement. The ordeal had been hard on all of them: for Aramis who suffered through bouts of coughing and struggling to breathe, and for his brothers who had to watch, not knowing if each strained wheeze would be his last. Athos had begrudged the duty that took him from his brother's side, risking that when he returned, Aramis would be gone.

But the marksman was currently sitting up in bed awake, though propped up with a bunch of pillows. His strength had been utterly sapped but his breathing was better, and the coughs, while obviously still painful on his abused ribs, had lost that disconcerting hoarseness.

"Now you can stop hitting me," he commented tiredly.

"Gladly," d'Artagnan replied from where he sat at the table with Porthos. "As long as that cough doesn't get worse again."

Aramis reached a hand up to his chest and winced. "Lord, no," he breathed in supplication.

Athos picked up the cup of tea from the nightstand and passed it over. "I will ask Doctor Nouwen to make enough herbal pouches for the journey back to France."

Aramis took a sip. "When do we leave?"

"Not until you're more recovered. I will not risk a relapse at sea. We'll remain here at least another week."

Aramis grimaced. "To be honest, I have no desire to board a ship home any time soon."

Athos wasn't all that eager himself, and neither were Porthos and d'Artagnan, he knew. "Unfortunately, we must. Unless we intend to resign our commissions and retire on Guernsey," he pointed out dryly.

"Well, I don't think that would be so bad," Aramis mused, sinking back into the pillows. "We could open a tavern."

Porthos snorted. "Athos would drink us out o' business." He rapped his knuckles on the table in d'Artagnan's direction. "D'Artagnan has farmin' experience. He could teach us that."

The boy shrugged with a smirk. "Sure."

Athos's lips quirked at the image.

But they all knew they would board that ship when it was time to sail back to France. That was where their lives, loves, and duties were.

And as long as they were together, they could stand in the face of their fears and emerge triumphant.


End file.
